I feel like writing, like painting on a canvas. No plot, no characters, just meanings. So its strange, are we all artists? How do we, as individuals set the line to what and who is and what is not? Lets be raw, lets be strange, lets share the moment together. I could call it love, or affection, or simply an idealistic naiveness (so that is not a word, but it's the power that makes it true). I am not sure, but I have a clear mind. I wish the answers were true, but they say they can only unveil progressively. Oh chucks, I say. But I wonder, if you, do too, feel this way. Hidden in the midst, crying in the rain, the devil inside of us flaming away. Call me stupid, I call myself curious. Lets find out, if I tell you will you tell me. Ill whisper it in your ears, ill shout it in your room, ill write it in your arm, ill wave it good bye.
But hey, what can I say, ill see your still there, wishing you were here.
Don't worry, this is just an artistic creation … can you feel it?
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